Julia London 4 Book Bundle

by The Rogues of Regent Street

  Julian chuckled as their coach pulled to the curb. “I assure you, Miss Wilhelmina Bentson-Fitzmayor is a far sight lovelier than her name.”

  Arthur bent to kiss Claudia’s cheek, then returned Julian’s smirk as he helped her into the coach. “I don’t doubt for a moment that she is, but I shan’t be in London Wednesday next,” he said as Claudia settled herself on the squabs.

  “Indeed?” Julian drawled as he stepped inside the cab. “And where exactly might you be, old chum?”

  Arthur smiled. “Scotland.”

  Chapter Two

  EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND

  MR. JAMIE REGIS, Esquire, stared at the man sitting across from him in the leather winged-back chair, quietly reading a letter. He didn’t like the looks of Lord Arthur Christian very much; he had that air of suffocating wealth about him. Not that Jamie Regis had anything against wealth … he just didn’t like being summoned by it.

  And summoned was exactly what Christian had done, sending him a letter one month ago dictating exactly where and when he would be expected to show himself, without any thought as to how difficult it might be for Jamie to come all the way to Edinburgh. The English Ass had business in Edinburgh, and therefore expected the world to come to him, just like the rich sheep farmers Jamie often represented.

  Look at him. He was awfully pleased with himself, wasn’t he? Sitting there like the king himself, right in the middle of the drawing room of the fancy Kenilworth Hotel, one leg draped casually over the other as he read the bank’s letter. Jamie considered himself rather dapper in his grooming, but the Ass was wearing a dark brown coat made of a material so fine it had to have come all the way from Paris. And his waistcoat—Lord, the pale green waistcoat was silk, Jamie was quite certain of it, and embroidered with rose and dark brown thread that exactly matched his coat. His pale green and brown neckcloth was impeccably tied, and the cut of his hair—a bit longer than the current style, Jamie thought smugly—was trimmed in such a way as to tame the waves in it. Even the man’s side whiskers were, impossibly, perfectly matched. It just wasn’t possible for a man to be that exacting on himself!

  He shifted his gaze to Christian’s hands and smirked. They were big, large hands—perfectly manicured, a heavy gold seal of some sort on the left ring finger—hands that had never worked a day.

  Jamie’s smirk faded as his gaze dropped to the man’s feet—and he quietly sucked in his breath. It was Christian’s boots that held him in awe. Rich, supple leather, tanned to shining perfection, rising up to a flawless fit just below his knee. Jamie Regis would have laid down his life for a pair of boots like that.

  “Mr. Regis?”

  Caught salivating over the man’s boots, Jamie colored. He looked up, felt instantly overpowered—the other thing the Ass possessed was a very sharp hazel gaze. “Aye?” he responded tightly.

  “I’m still a bit unclear. You handled Lord Rothembow’s investment in property in … where was it again … ah yes, Glenbaden, in Perthshire, is that correct?”

  Jamie nodded.

  “I imagine it is rather picturesque there.”

  When Jamie refused comment again, Christian smiled knowingly. “And you negotiated a settlement on the land and cattle with the Bank of Scotland for one-half the purchase price of eight thousand pounds to be paid at signing, and a loan against the other half for which the tenant had a responsibility to pay with proceeds from the sale of six beeves per annum over three subsequent years?”

  He had to think hard about that succinct summary; slowly, he nodded.

  Christian cocked his head to one side. “Please help me to understand, Mr. Regis. This letter from the bank clearly states that the debt owed on one-half the purchase price is in arrears and the taxes have not been paid since the loan was granted. I understood that a rather sizable herd of cattle was purchased with the land—was it not considered collateral against that loan?” he asked smoothly.

  Lord, the man’s gaze did not waver at all; Jamie felt as if it was actually piercing him all the way through his skull and to the chair behind his head as he waited for an answer. Unnerved, he hastily dropped his gaze and fumbled through a stack of papers he held on his lap. “Milord, it appears that ah …” Christ, what was the tenant’s name again? He hadn’t been to that glen in three years now, but God Almighty, whoever would have thought his practice would explode as it had … “Ah, Fraser,” he quickly continued, latching onto the man’s Christian name from some dust-covered memory. “Ahem. Aye, milord, Fraser did not make the payments to the bank as was agreed. Now, in thirty-four, there was quite a drought, quite a drought indeed, and I rather imagine there was no grazing land to speak of. And then in thirty-five there was a great influx of sheep to the region. That would be—”

  “Mr. Regis,” Christian smoothly interrupted in a way that made Jamie grit his teeth, “shouldn’t this … Fraser … have contacted you and asked for arrangements to be made with Lord Rothembow’s handlers in London when he missed the first payment? Or the second? Certainly the third?”

  There was no arguing that point; Jamie stopped fumbling through his papers and met the man’s gaze head on. “Aye, milord, he certainly should have. But I did send a letter to Lord Rothembow at once upon receiving the correspondence from the bank.”

  A slight frown crossed the Ass’s features and Jamie imagined that were he a solicitor here, he would personally call on his clients to see after things instead of relying on them to tell him when something was amiss. Well bloody hell, he could hardly be blamed for the fact that his practice had tripled in the last five years. Surely even the perfect Lord Arthur Christian wouldn’t have turned down the sheep herders that came to him, even if they were spread between Inverness and Fort William and Skye and—

  “Please take note, Mr. Regis,” the insufferable man said, and templing his fingers, narrowed his eyes and stared into space for a moment before continuing. “You will call on Fraser directly and inform him that, due to the deplorable state of his covenant with Lord Rothembow, the covenant is hereby and immediately suspended.” He paused, sipped delicately at a whiskey, then glanced curiously at Jamie. “You are making note, I trust?”

  Miraculously, Jamie refrained from saying what was on the tip of his tongue, bent his head, and gripping his pencil so tightly that his fingers hurt, scratched out the instruction he had just been given. “I am taking note, milord,” he said tightly.

  “Furthermore, you may tell him that he is to be evicted forthwith from the property and the land and remaining cattle to be put to sale as soon as possible, the proceeds of which will go to retire the outstanding debt, the taxes owed, and the interest accumulated these four years.” He paused again, quietly waiting for Jamie to finish writing his exact instructions. When Jamie at last lifted his head again, Christian leaned forward, commanding Jamie’s undivided attention. “When you make this call, sir,” he said low, “you should be quite clear with Mr. Fraser that I fully intend to pursue all remedies afforded to me by Scottish law in an effort to recoup the losses he has caused the late Phillip Rothembow, and that I will do so as the lawful agent of the Rothembow estate and with the full authority of the British Crown. Is that understood?”

  He spoke like a mercenary, as if he handed down such cold edicts all the time. Jamie nodded dumbly.

  Christian responded with a curt nod of his own. “Very good. In the meantime, I shall travel to Dundee upon concluding my business in Glasgow and pay the interest due as well as the taxes owed so that we may dispose of the property without hindrance.”

  He paused again, caught the eye of the servant across the room and nodded faintly at the whiskey glass next to his elbow before turning to Jamie again. “I shall expect to hear from you as to a date we might meet again and conclude this ugly business. But please understand that I fully expect to be on a ship to London by the end of the month and will brook no delays. I believe that is all, sir. Thank you for coming.”

  Jamie blinked. He couldn’t be entirely certain—the Ass spok
e awfully fast in the clipped tone of the aristocracy—but he thought he had just been dismissed. His eyes narrowed slightly; he puffed his cheeks and loudly gathered his belongings, fuming over the notion that he had come all the way from Inverness like a dog at this man’s summons, only to be ordered about and dismissed like a servant. The thought so angered him that he stood abruptly and immediately dropped several of his papers.

  The King leaned over the arm of his chair and retrieved them. “Your papers, sir.”

  Jamie quickly snatched them from his hand. “Why, thank you, milord,” he snarled, and turned on his heel, fully intending to march away.

  “Mr. Regis!”

  Jamie stopped, debating whether or not to turn for fear that he might actually explode. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder.

  “You forgot to inquire as to where you may reach me. When you have completed your task, you may send word to the Sherbrooke in Dundee to the attention of Lord Arthur Christian.”

  “The Sherbrooke,” Jamie managed to echo, and turned sharply, marching quickly from the posh drawing room of the Kenilworth before he did something foolish, like snap the man’s neck. As he paused just outside the door to straighten his things and himself, he glanced back—Lord Arthur Christian was sipping a fresh whiskey that had materialized, casually reading a newspaper.

  No, he did not like that haughty English Ass one bit. Not one bit.

  Later, at a tavern near the highway where Jamie waited to board an overnight coach to Stirling, he looked at the notes he had made while suffering through that interview. He knew that Christian fully expected him to call on … Fraser? What in the devil was his name, anyway? But a trip to the central Highlands really wasn’t practical just now. Jamie retrieved a leather-bound book from his satchel and opened it. There, in his neat script, was a list of appointments and legal matters he had pending. It was obvious from the extensive list that there was no time to go tramping about the Trossachs. Actually, he was desperately needed in Fort Williams where one of his clients was in a terribly heated dispute about a shipment of tobacco that sank off the French coast.

  Lifting a tankard of ale to his lips, Jamie Regis pondered his dilemma.

  In all honesty, a letter would have as much impact as his calling. He could simply write Fraser Whateverhisname, explain the details of the eviction, and fix a date for his final call. The arrogant Ass would never know the difference—he’d get what he wanted, which was the settlement of the estate. Aye, this course was justified—he had far too much real work to take the additional time. He would simply pen a letter, inform Fraser that he would call four weeks hence to “conclude this ugly business,” as Christian put it, and tend to his business in Fort William.

  Right.

  A letter.

  That’s what he’d do. Just as soon as he found the man’s blasted name.

  Chapter Three

  GLENBADEN, CENTRAL HIGHLANDS, SCOTLAND

  WHEN THE HAPLESS young Willie Keith delivered the weekly post to the scattering of modest homes in Glenbaden each week, the residents—what few of them were left, anyway—gathered in their yards and waited. Not for Willie, of course, but the widow Kerry McKinnon. Mrs. McKinnon had the task of actually delivering the post because young Willie was so desperately in love with her, he couldn’t rightly read the names on the vellums, much less find his way down the rutted lane snaking through the glen.

  So every Wednesday, Willie Keith rode through the barley field of their peaceful little glen on the back of his mule. He looked neither left nor right, but simply disappeared over the knoll that led to the big white house of the late Fraser McKinnon. And every Wednesday, shortly after Willie’s arrival, Mrs. McKinnon would appear on the knoll with a basket in her hand, leaving the poor young Willie to stare after her with such longing on his freckled face that the residents couldn’t help but worry that this would be the week he would actually expire with it.

  Yet there wasn’t one of them who didn’t feel his obvious longing stir something deep inside their own venerable souls. Not that a casual observer could tell from looking at any of them, but once they had all been just as young as Wee Willie.

  On a particularly clear and cloudless summer morning, however, no one was chuckling at poor Willie Keith—they were far too concerned with the urgency they sensed in Kerry McKinnon’s step as she marched down the rutted lane with the basket of letters clutched in her hand. The dozen inhabitants stood in their little yards with their chickens, dogs, and children at their feet, warily exchanging looks as she handed out the neat bundles of letters. It was unusual to see her so distracted—she had forgotten her always-cheerful greeting, her inquiry into their respective well-being.

  She hardly spoke at all.

  More than one wondered if the pretty, dark-haired lass wasn’t feeling a wee bit ill. Little wonder if she was—the lass worked like a dog to keep them all going, rising with the first gasp of the day and toiling well after its last sputter into the night. In spite of the work it took just to keep the crops growing, the livestock fed, the house and barn in repair, Kerry McKinnon also found time in every day to see after them, each and every one. She called on Red Donner to see after his gout, made sure the old hag Winifred had awakened to another sunrise (and blast it if she hadn’t), helped the young mother of three, Loribeth, with her chores. She was the glen’s lifeblood, and to see even the slightest crease of a frown on her fair brow made them all feel a little out of sorts.

  But unbeknownst to the residents, Kerry McKinnon had started the day in perfectly fine health. In fact, she had been feeling so robust that she had tackled the very daunting task of cleaning the old barn, attacking it with gusto—until Willie brought her the weekly post. She smiled at the carrot-topped lad, asked after his sister who had been ailing. Even though she saw her mother’s handwriting on one folded vellum—which caused her to shudder involuntarily as it always did—it was the neat little signature of Mr. Jamie Regis, Esquire, on the back of a very heavy vellum that caused her stomach to churn.

  Kerry remembered the name of Regis all right, but worse, she remembered Fraser had done something through him that she had never fully understood and had suspected was quite ill-advised. A sense of impending doom had immediately tightened her throat. She snatched the letter from the little basket, hastily broke the seal, and unconsciously lifted a hand to her neck as she began to read, choking on the contents.

  After the necessary and extremely wordy felicitations, the letter very simply said that the land she was standing on was forfeit and marked to be sold, that she was to be sued for Fraser’s debts, and oh God … immediately evicted.

  Evicted!

  Her hand suddenly shaking, Kerry had quickly grabbed the left side of the letter to steady it and read it once more, certain she had misunderstood, positive there was a clause that she had missed.

  Unfortunately, she had understood it all too well.

  Somehow, she had managed to smile at Willie, to send him to the kitchen and the freshly baked biscuits there. Somehow, she had managed to put the post in her basket and start down the lane toward the cottages that dotted the glen. She had forced herself to smile and greet her neighbors as she handed out the mail, and now, she was miraculously managing to walk out of their midst, away from their curious gazes, turning at the end of the lane toward the loch, her head high.

  Blind to the path in front of her, she walked, seeing nothing but Mr. Regis’s neat script citing irreparable debt and mismanagement, and the ridiculously short time of four weeks allotted her to pay her debt and avoid any legal consequence.

  This was unbelievable! Fraser had sold a large portion of the family land, had owed money she had no inkling of before his death, and now she stood to lose everything because of it, be tossed away like so much garbage, along with his cousins, Angus and May, and Thomas, too. Not to mention the others in Glenbaden, the last of Clan McKinnon, his own family! Dear God, where would they go? What would they do?

  An invisible vise suddenly
clutched her stomach; Kerry abruptly stopped and bent over, her pain real in the wake of understanding what the letter meant.

  But after a moment, she forced herself up. She couldn’t let the others know of this disaster, not yet, not until she had thought of something. Anything! They would panic; Thomas would do something rash. No, she couldn’t let them know, not until she had tried everything to save them.

  But Mr. Regis had given her only four weeks!

  Despairing, Kerry continued walking, moving wood-enly toward the loch as her mind raced, desperately seeking solutions to this catastrophe. But there was nothing—she had no money, nothing of any value. There were no options, nothing save her mother …

  Not that. Never that! She stumbled to a stop again, brought a hand to her eyes as she squeezed them shut. Tears burned her eyes, but she pushed herself forward, told herself to keep moving, keep thinking, which she did almost unconsciously until she found herself on her knees beside her husband’s grave, staring at the little cross, the awful letters clutched in one hand.

  “You lied to me, Fraser.”

  She had believed him when he told her everything would be all right. Yes, well, it was all right for Fraser now, God rest his soul, as he had died last fall. But he had left her in a morass from which she had no idea how to extract herself.

  Kerry glanced around at the little cemetery on the banks of a stream where the McKinnon ancestors were buried alongside her husband, trying to force down the anger she seemed to battle every day. She shouldn’t feel such anger—poor Fraser, he hadn’t been very old at all, just four and thirty when he had finally gone to meet his maker. She winced and wiped her palm down the side of her neck.

  There it was again, that little feeling of relief that he was gone.

  Certainly she was glad he was no longer suffering, but that small, yet distinct feeling made her question if she hadn’t been more relieved for herself than for Fraser. All right then, truthfully—Fraser had been so sick for so long, that in Kerry’s heart, he had died years ago. He had taken ill only two years after they had married and had lingered in worsening degrees of ill health another seven years. They had ceased to live as husband and wife at the onset of his illness, and in the last two years of his life the pain had been so debilitating that he had required her constant care.